The year is 2016. I’m leaving one province and venturing into the next. I welcome the change in landscape, trading the lush wild forests of Northern British Columbia for endless prairies and the cold lakes of Manitoba. I crossed the Saskatchewan Manitoba border from the North heading East on Highway 77. The sun was high, and the summer heat was already in the air days before officially starting. Finally, crossing the line, I took a moment to gather my bearings, pulling to the side of the road with my face buried in a map. My focus was suddenly distracted by the sound of firm taps on the vehicle’s windows. As I glanced from my map towards the dashboards horizon, my view was muffled by a dark haze. Seconds later, I realized it was an attack of great magnitude. I have never in my life seen so many horse-flies with such rage attempting to break through the tempered glass. I can only compare it to a scene out of Hitchcock’s “The Birds”, replacing gulls with insects. I immediately wound up my window, cursing out loud in a mix of humour and shock. I drove off down the highway, leaving the swarm in the vehicle’s wake, as you see in the cartoons.
I headed south, looking for turn-offs amongst the flat landscape, searching for any evidence of civilization. Some towns only consisted of a single sign, and a couple abandoned homes. Prospects of any encounter started to feel slim. I decided to head East on highway 20 towards Duck Bay and try my luck closer to the lake communities. I arrived in Duck Bay at the far point of the reserve, making a U-turn and slowly driving back the way I came in hopes of meeting anyone. Suddenly a convoy of four police vehicles with sirens blazing appeared driving towards me on the only access road into the community. I thought this might not be the best time to ask people to share their stories and to take their pictures.
It was getting late, and I needed to find a campsite or patch of grass to park for the night. I drove into Winnipegosis and parked along a gravel road that was adjacent to the lake. I climbed out of my truck and into the back where my sleeping bag and Thermarest were waiting. That is when the second attack occurred. This time it was Manitoba’s most famous insect. The mosquito. I always thought the stories behind Manitoba’s bugs were like elusive fish stories; it was this big, as the story goes. Their mosquitos are no joke and could carry a small child away. As I closed the back tailgate and topper door, I thought I was safe. Within minutes, the high pitch buzzing started around the ears. I turned on my headlamp and saw about thirty mosquitos inside my enclosed mobile hotel. Each intruder exploded under my hand as they landed. Not thinking clearly, I was embedding little shards of fiberglass because the trucks topper on the interior was uncoated. The pain didn’t arrive until after my roof was speckled with bug guts. After ten minutes, I was ready to sleep finally, annoyed at my stupidity with a small amount of satisfaction. Five minutes later, more buzzing in my ears, and like before, headlamp on and another round of squishing. I couldn’t understand it as I have never seen such reluctant beasts. I noticed a small opening along the side of the tailgate where the gate meets the back fender. It was less than a half-inch wide. I covered it with duct tape and killed more mosquitoes, this time wrapping a shirt around my hand. This happened another three more times and duct-taping all possible entries inside the back of the truck. Still, to no avail, they always seemed to find a way in. I sealed myself in my sleeping bag, hoping not to suffocate, but at this rate, I welcomed death.
I managed to get two hours of sleep that night, and at five in the morning, I had enough. I jumped in the cab of the truck to catch any sleep possible. By now, the sun was coming up, and my hands and arms were burning. No rest for me. I drove to the town’s docks and sat on the end of the pier, where I found a line of docked boats rocking amongst the mirrored orange sky, changing slowly as the sun started to rise. A man came over and, like in any small town, began to make small talk. As we got to chatting, I was informed that today was the first day of the commercial fishing season. Suddenly, groups of men started arriving. That’s when I met Clarence. A 90-year-old fisherman with a faithful bunch of eager seamen just itching to get out onto the water. He reminded me of a modern-day pirate, a captain, and his crew of misfits. In my mind, I heard “Ahoy mate,” but in reality, it was a bright Canadian accent, “How’s it going, eh?”. When I described my project and asked to take his portrait, like most people whose pictures I take in these scenarios, there is always some hesitation. However, with friends and colleagues liking the idea, they encouraged him, hoping to see their brave captain embarrass under pressure. I was obliged with a “yah, alright then,” followed by harmless jeers and laughter. Clarence was gracious with his time. He was calm, collected, and an innocent humour that you would expect to see in any small lakeside town. Because of the opening season day, I was not able to interview him.
Just over three years have gone by since I took Clarence’s portrait. Without knowing much about him, I did some digging and managed to find his phone number. When I called him, he was more than happy to share some stories. Clarence grew up in Winnipegosis and talked of living in the town fondly. “Living out here for me was great. We could hunt, fish, and do what we want”... “I’ve never left Winnipegosis, and the only time I did travel, it was up the lake to fish.” When I asked if he had any grandchildren, his response was, “That’s one thing I wish I had was grandchildren. I miss children, and I love children.” Clarence, unfortunately, suffered a stroke months after I took his picture. This caused him to lose feeling in half his body and is now using the support of a wheelchair. When I asked him if he had any words about the life he had lived, his reply was this. “I had a good life, and death does not scare me one bit. Maybe, when I die, I’ll see the old lady again. That would be great.” Feeling the tears in my eyes, and before I could respond, Clarence ends the silence with, “Hey, did you know I’m in the shed right now making lures and jigs for other fishermen?”
